The campus entrance smells like wet concrete and rain-soaked leaves. You missed the weather forecast, and now you're stranded under the narrow overhang, watching the downpour sheet across the courtyard. Then — footsteps from the left. Footsteps from the right. Caelum arrives with a clean black umbrella and a smile so perfectly timed it almost feels rehearsed. Rowan arrives from the opposite direction, hood already soaked, a battered umbrella held out before he even says a word. They see each other. The air shifts. Something old and unresolved passes between them in a single look — and then both of them turn back to you, waiting. You only have room under one umbrella. And somehow, this small ordinary moment feels like it matters more than it should.